Gym Bird
"Late night at PureGym, same time every night. She's always on the squat rack when he arrives. They've never spoken. Until the gym's empty and she asks for a spot."
11 PM at PureGym.
The late crew is a different breed. No showing off, no Instagram posing. Just people who want to lift heavy and go home.
She's always here when I arrive.
Squat rack, every night, headphones in, focused. We've never spoken. But I've noticed her.
She's thick in the right places.
Thighs that strain her leggings, arse that defies gravity, curves that her sports bra struggles to contain. She's got that gym tan—orange tint, bit too much—and bleached blonde hair scraped back in a bun.
Works hard, lifts heavy, doesn't fuck about.
Tonight, our eyes meet in the mirror.
She doesn't look away.
Week One
We establish a rhythm.
She takes the squat rack. I take the bench nearby. We work in parallel, never crossing paths except for nods of acknowledgment.
But I catch her watching me between sets.
And she catches me watching her.
Neither of us says anything.
Week Two
The gym empties out around midnight.
Just us and the guy on reception who's definitely asleep. The lights flicker, the music drones, and we lift.
"You always here this late?"
First words she's ever said to me.
"Most nights. You?"
"Same." She racks her weight. "I'm Chelsea."
"Ryan."
"I know." She smiles. "Read it on your gym bag."
Week Three
We start timing our water breaks together.
"What do you do?" she asks.
"Security. Nights mostly."
"That why you're here late?"
"Habit now. You?"
"Care work." She stretches. "Old folks' home. Days. Need something that's mine at night, you know?"
"I know."
We go back to lifting. But something's shifted.
Week Four
She asks for a spot.
"Going heavy tonight. Need someone behind me."
I position myself as she squats. Her arse nearly touches my thighs at the bottom of each rep. The weight's serious—more than most blokes lift.
"One more," I encourage.
She grinds it out, racks it, turns around.
We're very close.
"Thanks," she breathes.
"Anytime."
Week Five
The conversations get longer.
She tells me about her nan in the care home—visits her every day before work. About her ex who said she was "too muscular" for a woman. About her dreams of competing one day.
"You've got the frame for it," I say.
"Yeah?" She looks pleased. "Most blokes find it weird."
"Most blokes are idiots."
She laughs. First time I've heard it. It's lovely.
Week Six
Gym's closing for maintenance.
Three days. The receptionist announces it at 11:30.
"Fuck sake," Chelsea mutters. "I need my routine."
"Could train at mine," I offer before I think about it. "Got a garage gym. Basic but functional."
She looks at me.
"You inviting me to your place?"
"To train. Yeah."
"Alright." She saves my number in her phone. "Text me the address."
Night one at my garage gym.
It's cold, basic—rack, bench, barbell, some dumbbells. But it works.
Chelsea shows up in her usual gear. We train like we always do, except now it's just us. No reception guy. No fluorescent lights. Just the cold garage and our breath fogging in the air.
"This is nice," she says. "Private."
"It is."
We hold eye contact too long.
Night two.
We train harder. Push each other. The competitiveness is fun—she matches me on deadlifts, beats me on squats.
"Not bad for a care worker," I joke.
"Not bad for a security guard," she fires back.
After, we sit on the bench, cooling down.
"I should go," she says.
Neither of us moves.
Night three.
Last night before the gym reopens.
We train, but the energy's different. Electric. Every accidental touch feels deliberate. Every look holds something.
"Ryan."
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to go back to just nodding at each other in the gym."
"Neither do I."
She stands, walks over to me.
"So what are we going to do about it?"
She kisses me.
Right there in my cold garage, both of us sweaty and tired. Her body presses against mine—thick, strong, warm—and I grab her hips like I've been wanting to for weeks.
"I've wanted this," she admits, "since week one."
"Same."
"Why didn't you say?"
"Why didn't you?"
She laughs, kisses me again.
We don't make it inside.
The garage is cold but we don't care. Her leggings come down, my shorts come off, and we fuck against the squat rack.
Her thighs grip me like they grip the bar—strong, powerful, relentless. She's vocal, demanding, tells me exactly what she wants.
"Harder—right there—don't you dare stop—"
I don't stop.
She comes first, then pulls me over the edge with her.
After, we finally go inside.
"Warmer in here," she admits.
"Could've started here."
"Where's the fun in that?" She grins. "Besides. The squat rack has memories now."
I make her tea. She stays the night.
The gym reopens.
We're back at 11 PM, same routine. But now she takes the bench next to my squat rack. Now we leave together.
"People are gonna notice," she says.
"Let them."
"The late night crew will talk."
"So?" I take her hand as we walk to the car park. "They can watch us lift heavy and go home together. Jealousy's their problem."
Six months later, she moves in.
The garage gym becomes ours. We train together every night, push each other, grow together.
"Best training partner I ever had," she tells me.
"Best spotter I ever had," I reply.
She laughs, kisses me, racks her weight.
"One more set. Then bed."
Some routines are worth keeping.